


The Veiled Charm Under Influence

by sadsparties



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Drunkenness, Gen, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-21 23:26:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadsparties/pseuds/sadsparties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac always tried, but he did not expect his efforts to ever affect Combeferre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Veiled Charm Under Influence

Like most famous, miraculous transformations, it began with a wedding. 

Dear Doctor Bellard, esteemed colleague of the Necker Hospital, was married. It had been a merry occasion, and while the wedding was open to one and all, the feast was reserved for a select few. As part of the medical school, Combeferre and Joly were invited, though by some mysterious trick of the powers that be, so was Courfeyrac.

“To the bride!” he raised a toast.

“To the bride and groom, you mean,” Combeferre corrected as he accepted a fourth glass.

The afternoon went this way: Courfeyrac would offer them a drink, and while Joly declined, Combeferre would raise the glass in mock toast, give out a light chuckle, and drown the amber liquid in one gulp. Courfeyrac rejoiced in these proceedings, and in between sets of dancing with ladies, he would beckon to a passing servant and instruct him to offer whatever drink he carried to the bespectacled guest.

Joly watched them with mirth. “I’m surprised that you haven’t given up on this venture,” he said over Courfeyrac’s shoulder as their friend consumed a glass of brandy. “Combeferre has never succumbed to intoxication.” At this, Courfeyrac produced a warm grin. “I am fully aware, my friend, but one must try.”

Like any social gathering, they were expected to mingle, and while the activity was close to Courfeyrac’s natural inclinations, it was not the same for his friends. He ventured to rescue Joly from the bride’s aunts but was arrested by snippets of an interesting conversation.

“Madame, has anyone ever told you that your eyes are akin to lapis lazulis?”

“To what, monsieur?”

“The rock called lapis lazuli, from the mountains of Siberia.”

Woe to the good lady for engaging Combeferre! Courfeyrac was about to intervene when Combeferre continued.

“The lapis appears in the form of crystalline marble as a result of contact metamorphism,” he said with complete gravity. “Its trade value depended on the intensity of its colour, and because of its deep blue hue, was often considered as a holy stone, and like all stones with seemingly unearthly powers,” Combeferre paused as he lifted the lady’s chin to his direct gaze, “quite precious.”

Courfeyrac, who was one for elaborate speeches, had only three words to say: Oh, my God.

He motioned quickly for Joly, who at the sight of Combeferre entirely nonplussed while conversing with a lady, was equally astonished. “What did you give him?” he asked with increasing worry. The crowd around Combeferre began to thicken. “I have no idea,” Courfeyrac answered.

“I would disagree, mademoiselle. Delphine is no boring name. It comes from the Delphic oracle of Greek origins. Those in politics regarded her pronouncements highly, as would I to any word you uttered.”

“Forgive me, madame. When you mentioned opera, I readily thought that you belonged to it. Such sweetness of voice does not belong to the mere audience.”

And so it went. And so the circle of ladies around him thickened. When a kerchief fell on the floor, Combeferre bent to rescue it. Whether it was purely his intention to grant the room with the fine impression of his derrière, Courfeyrac was not sure, but he could have sworn that every female within immediate distance swooned. It was not until Joly pointed out that the woman with the kerchief was the bride herself that they both launched themselves at each of Combeferre’s sides, linked his arms to theirs, and fled.

“Now, now, my friends,” he said gaily. “If you so desired my attentions, you need only to say it. There is no need to be so… aggressive.” A shudder ran from the tips of Joly’s toes to the last strands of hair on his head. “We must get him to Enjolras,” he implored. Even Mercury could not have beaten the speed at which the colour drained from Courfeyrac’s face. “We will be murdered on the spot.”

By some Divine Intervention, they reached Combeferre and Enjolras’s apartments with no complication. By some further act of Providence, Enjolras had not strangled them. Perhaps it was the repentant look in their faces, or perhaps it was the shock from Combeferre’s dreamy greeting: “Ah, mon ami! How lovely you are. As always.”

Either way, Courfeyrac and Joly had lived to tell the tale, and tell they did, only no one ever believed them.


End file.
